Argentina
“Argentina,”
she said.
Broccoli menacingly pierced
by delicate tines. Lips a perfect red.
The heat of the candle
burns his nostrils.
Chicago winds hold him aloft.
A conquistador with a gold watch. She laughs.
“Your appetite for gin makes you look like an asshole.”
Gus chuckles and chokes on his dinner roll as Ron fidgets
with his napkin. Susan just seeks comfort in the bottom of her wine glass.
On stage a trio plays barely audible blues, notes breaking
along the coastal cliffs, swirling in the shoals
of the barstools
and the booth tables.
It was a legitimate question, he tells himself,
an understandable misunderstanding.
She smiles at his loss. His urbane nature and wit
exposed and worthless.
The shrimp pasta turning cold on his plate.
“I’m afraid…” he stutters, looking past her.
Outside the summer heat infuses the night with despondency.
Her fork is poised to strike inches above the plate.
Susan inspects
the length of her fingernails.
“…you have…”
He stops. Gus gazes at him with dying hope.
“I am having a garage sale this weekend,” Ron interjects,
gingerly sprinkling pepper on his baked potato. “Taking tomorrow off.”
marcellosrevenge 
I am now reading your poems to my wife. She will love them.
Thanks! That is funny as I thought that I would read your poems to my wife. Or show them to her at least. I don’t have that good of a reading voice. I love your writing style and am glad I found your blog!
Yes, reading your stuff makes me think about my own writing. I think we may share a few common brain calls. It is good you meet you.
Thanks for the visits, dear friend. I read this poem of yours and loved it instantly because of its title, descriptive style, and the memories of a song about Argentina (Don’t Cry For Me Argentina).
Visiting you blog is a pleasure! Thank you for reading mine, and the kind words. I remember as a child a commercial for Evita would play on TV (the musical not the movie), and it would have that song playing. My brothers and I would go around singing it in total ignorance of the subject matter. Well, ignorance at least on my part.
I loved to belt out Evita when my brother cooked for his catering business. I was a server with his wife. He hated when I sang it because it broke into his Chef’s sensibility to be serious, and because I don’t have a particularly good voice. But every once in a while he’d crack a smile. He died last year and your poem and the subsequent discussion were a pleasure to read on many levels.
I am very happy that you enjoyed reading the poem, and the discussion, and I am sorry for your loss. I very much enjoyed visting your site, and thank you for visiting mine.